


Lies | Luck

by Phosphorescent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Also Starring Chekhov's Stockpiled Grain Stores in the Vale ℅ Littlefinger, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Post-War for the Dawn, R Plus L Equals J, UST, Warg Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorescent/pseuds/Phosphorescent
Summary: “Have we met before?” he asked, the words leaving his lips before he could think them through.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 121
Collections: Jonsa New Year Drabbles





	Lies | Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this _definitely_ isn't a drabble by any definition of the word and it's a couple of days past the prompt date, but let's ignore both of those facts, shall we? ;-)

“Take Soren with you, at least,” Tormund had said. “He’s kissed by fire, that one. And you’ll need all the luck you can get.”

Perhaps Jon should have taken his advice. They’d been at the Gates of the Moon for three days now, negotiating with the Lord Protector of the Vale. Petyr Baelish was obsequiously polite but immovable: he would not part with the Vale’s surplus grain for anything less than a fortune and several highly questionable political favors. 

Not that he used _that_ wording, of course.

Young Robert Arryn had not appeared at a single meeting. Then again, if the little Jon had seen of him over supper was any indication, perhaps that was just as well. The lordling was somewhere between eight and twelve years of age, and sickly, petulant, and spoilt in the bargain.

“I want my Alayne!” he’d cried one night, shoving his plate off the table.

“My natural daughter, Your Grace,” Baelish had explained apologetically, gesturing for a servant to clean up the mess. “The boy is rather dependent on her. She’s visiting friends at Whitemont.” Turning to the boy, he’d added, “Sweetrobin—”

“I’m not!” the boy shrieked. He pounded his fists on the table. It shook under his administrations, causing several overfull cups to splash out onto the table, staining the cloth below a deep gold. “I’m not, I’m _not_! I’m a _lord_ , and Alayne says—”

“ _Alayne_ ,” Baelish said, “isn’t _here_. And if she was, she would be very _sad_ to see you behaving like this, my lord.”

That had temporarily shut him up.

Jon was certain even Greyjoy, ass though he’d been, hadn’t dared behave so before guests by this age. Even three-year-old Rickon—

The temptation to set Ghost on the lot of them was almost overwhelming. If the Vale didn’t have thrice the manpower of the North… if they didn’t need that food so badly… 

But then, that was what Baelish was counting on, wasn’t it? That Jon would cave to his demands out of sheer desperation. They may have won the War for the Dawn, but that would mean little to his people if they starved to death.

Yet Jon pretended his situation was less desperate than it was, and Baelish… well, who knew all he pretended? The man was as slippery as an eel and twice as slimy.

Ghost’s ears suddenly perked up, nose flaring. Jon stiffened too, hand going to his sword.

The hour was late. Who else would be up and about beyond a foolish king who chose to wander the halls rather than sleep? 

Shoes clacked on the flagstones, and Ghost bounded forward to meet a cloaked figure rounding the corner.

“ _Oh_!” a female voice exclaimed, high and breathless. Her snow-laden hood was still drawn over her head as she drew closer; she must have only just arrived at the castle. Yet why would she have traveled the mountains at night? And where were her traveling companions?

_Fool. She must be terrified._

He rushed to allay her fears.

“He won’t hurt you.” _Not unless you mean us harm._ “He’s just curious.”

But oddly, the figure didn’t seem very afraid. Instead, she eagerly embraced the advancing direwolf. Burying her fingers and face in his thick coat, she whispered something to him, voice too soft for Jon to make out the words. Ghost seemed to lap up the attention. Jon had never seen him take so quickly to a stranger before.

When she at last raised her head, her hood had fallen back to reveal her face. Delicately arched brows framed a pale face with high cheekbones, long lashes, and deep blue eyes that seemed to shine in the torchlight. Her chestnut hair was bound in a net a few shades lighter than her eyes, but wisps kept escaping from it.

She was beautiful.

One slim, elegant hand was still outstretched—towards him? Towards Ghost?—before she seemed to remember herself and dropped into a graceful curtsey. “Your Grace.”

“Please, don’t,” he found himself saying.

It felt wrong for a lady such as this to bend before him. Next to her easy grace, he felt twice as rough and clumsy. Even _Ghost_ seemed more suited to these halls and their company. 

“You _are_ the King in the North, are you not?” she asked, eyes scanning him curiously. He wondered what she saw. Though well-made, his clothing was plain, and his crown was back in his chambers. He supposed he wasn’t unpleasant to look upon, but he had never been as handsome as Ro—

He cleared his throat. “Aye, my lady. And you are…?”

When she blinked, he could almost _feel_ the feather-light sweep of her lashes on his cheek.

She seemed to debate for a moment before answering, “Alayne Stone, Your Grace.” 

So _this_ was the mysterious Alayne.

“Lord Baelish’s daughter?”

“...Yes, Your Grace.”

She seemed reluctant to admit it. He couldn’t blame her; he would be reluctant to own Petyr Baelish as a father too. But then, what right did he have to judge her for her father? A man’s sins were his own. And there were worse sins than being ingratiating and opportunistic.

“I am glad you are come, my lady. Your brother has missed you dreadfully.”

Her face froze. “My brother?”

Perchance she had taken offense at his use of ‘brother’ rather than the more precise ‘brother by marriage’ or ‘stepbrother’?

“Aye, Robert Arryn.”

She shook her head and a few more strands escaped their silken prison. “Though I care for him dearly, he is not my brother by blood, Your Grace. And… I would not be so presumptuous as to claim kinship with a trueborn Arryn.”

Her deferential words and lowered gaze were an arrow to his heart. How many times had he been made to feel less for his birth?

“Blood is not everything,” he told her more fiercely than he had intended, “and I do not doubt Lord Arryn sees you as kin.”

“You are very kind,” she murmured. “I had not re—” She broke off, cheeks coloring. “Apologies, Your Grace.”

“There is nothing to apologize for.” 

He eyed Alayne again, and not wholly for the pleasure of it. There was something familiar about her that he could not place. 

“Have we met before?” he asked, the words leaving his lips before he could think them through.

But where would he have met her? _When_? He would remember a lady like Alayne, he was sure.

“Have you ever been to Gulltown, Your Grace?”

“I can’t say I have.”

She shrugged lightly. “Then it seems impossible for us to have met. I only came to the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon a few years ago.” 

She was right, but why did it feel like a lie?

“I trust the household has seen to your comfort?” she continued briskly. “I usually manage such matters, but my lord father did not tell me we were expecting guests of your station.”

“I could ask nothing more,” he assured her. 

_Nothing but that your father speak plainly, and sell us the food we need at a fair price._

But that was hardly the fault of the servants. Although… 

He frowned. “He spoke nothing of our visit?”

“I knew we were expecting representatives from the North, but I was given to understand that they would be minor lords and ladies.”

_Strange._

“He must have misunderstood your raven,” she added with another delicate shrug. 

Did she truly believe that? He couldn’t tell.

The shrug shifted her cloak further, exposing a fraction of the slender column of her throat. Some depraved part of him wanted to lave it with his tongue—would it taste as sweet as it looked?—to _bite_ it, marking her as his own. It was a gnawing hunger in his gut.

She smelled of sweat and snow, of rosewater and something sharper and muskier, something uniquely _hers_ —

Jon reeled back in horror.

He shifted awkwardly to hide the evidence of his thoughts.

Ghost was nuzzling her upper skirts, though thankfully she did not seem to have realized his initial purpose and was only laughingly petting him.

“Poor boy, were we neglecting you?”

He was supposed to have this under _control_ by now. He couldn’t keep slipping into Ghost’s skin by accident—what if it happened during combat? During an important judgement?

And _Lady Alayne_ —

He flushed.

“Pardon, my lady,” he said stiffly. “I fear we have been keeping you from your bed. You must be weary after your journey.”

_And I doubt your father would be pleased to find you alone with a grown man in the middle of the night._

“If anyone has been an imposition, tis I, Your Grace,” Alayne said, “for _I_ interrupted _your_ solitude. But I shall take your hint and bid you a good night.”

Wasn’t that just his luck, that she’d think he was trying to get rid of her? It was _true_ , but… 

She curtsied again and gave Ghost one last pat before departing the room.

And for one lingering moment, her hair seemed to gleam copper in the torchlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Realistically, I think Jon will be a _lot_ more damaged than this post-resurrection, and even more so post-WFTD, but sometimes you just want to write fluff and UST, yeah? 
> 
> If you want, you can almost view [Hidden | True](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151807) as a sequel to this fic, wherein Jon and Sansa are aware of each other's true identities and have returned to Winterfell. Naturally, this new situation creates as many problems as it solves...


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